Onions
by SlvrSoleAlchmst1
Summary: Matt wants to finish chopping up a few onions. Mello wants him to stop stinking up their apartment. Commence the inevitable Onion Bawlfest Of Doom. [In other words: Hi, this be crack. And there's really no such thing as a Bawlfest Of Doom.]


Matt wiped his nose with the back of one hand; he was god damned glad his eyes were covered. The kitchenette reeked. He didn't need his vision streaming while he was trying to see to cut though the stupid friggen—

"Fuck!" Matt cursed and sucked hard on his finger. "_Shit._"

"Matt, what are you _doing?_"

Matt jumped. Mello was leaning against the doorframe, slouched like some come-hither prostitute, while Matt's finger was bleeding from the knife and his nose was still running and damn it – the goggles weren't doing their job…

"_Matt._"

"I'm cutting an onion," Matt barked, running his injury under the tap water. "What does it _look_ like I'm doing?" He hadn't meant to snap at Mello, but the whole god damned situation was just—

"You mind telling me _why_, or will I have to threaten you to get the information I want?" Mello's eyes narrowed at the same time they seemed to pop crazily.

For about the seventeenth instant since they'd reunited, Matt questioned Mello's sanity. It was probably all the chocolate. Matt squinted. Yeah, definitely the chocolate. Maybe he should be feeding Mello onions.

When Matt failed to answer, Mello's gun came away from the front of his pants. Matt's finger had stopped bleeding, but now he had a bigger problem.

"Mello, get your gun out of my face."

"Then tell me why the fuck you're cutting onions."

"I felt like something other than instant noodles, all right?" Matt rolled his eyes behind his goggles and instantly regretted it. Tears welled on the edges of his lids, and he knew if he blinked he'd have to take his goggles off to rub them clear. He grimaced. Removing _those_ would expose his vision to the full blast of the Onion Wave.

"Hang on," Matt said suspiciously, while the knife hovered over a series of uncut layers. "Mello, why aren't _your_ eyes—"

"Don't change the subject," Mello snarled, gluing the gun to Matt's temple. "Tell me what you think you're cooking, before I shoot you for stinking up our hideout."

Matt chopped down viciously. "Pasta sauce," he said.

Mello appeared to be satisfied with the answer. He put his gun up, bulging his eyes in curiosity while he licked his chocolate. "Pasta sauce. You Italian or something?"

"What does it matter?"

"It reeks."

"That's why I told you to stay out of the kitchen. Why aren't your eyes watering?"

Mello blinked. Then he squinted. Then he wrinkled his nose and took a step back.

Matt cackled. "Ha ha, now that you're thinking about it, it's getting a lot worse, isn't it?"

"Fuck you," Mello gritted. His hand twitched, as if he craved to reach up and wipe moisture from his burning eyes but didn't dare. "At least I'm not hiding behind goggles like a pansy."

Matt snorted. "'Scuse me, I wear these all the time."

"Yeah, well, it's cheating to wear them while you're cutting onions. You're supposed to take it like a man."

"They're just _onions_, Mello." Matt bit the inside of his lip to keep from guffawing.

Mello was behind him faster than Matt could process the shift. "Then I guess you won't care if I take these goggles the fuck off." There echoed a sharp snap as Mello pulled back and released the elastic strap. Matt swore, and then his goggles were torn from his head.

"Mello, fuck y—" He hissed and fell silent. His eyes burned like hot lamps.

God damned onions!

Mello sauntered around to Matt's front. Matt stood hunched over, one hand squeezing his eyes shut tight. He lifted his chin and risked a peek from beneath his lashes. Mello was watching him with a smirk, but Matt felt mildly triumphant when he noticed the glistening tears on Mello's cheeks.

"What's the matter, tough guy?" Matt managed, straightening. "Rough night? You want to cry it out on my shoulder?"

Mello raised his gun again, and Matt flinched, but the barrel slid safely past his nose. It rested lightly on the papery skin of the onion that Matt hadn't ventured to cut into yet.

Matt froze. "Mello."

Mello cocked the gun frostily.

"Mello, don't you even _think_ about…"

Mello's finger closed over the trigger.

"Oh god, Mello, you _wouldn't_. You wouldn't shoot an onion."

BANG.

Something wet and slimy hit the side of Matt's face even as he ducked. "MELLO!"

"Just think," Mello hummed psychotically, "Now you're done."

"_Mello_," Matt moaned, his face streaked with salty tears.

"What's the matter, Matt? Rough night? You want to cry it out on my shoulder?"

Matt sniffed violently. "I really hate you."

"Good," Mello said, striding away from the piercing aroma with a sneer. Then he took a caustic bite of chocolate.

Matt cried into a dishtowel.

_A/N: BWAHAHA. I think that is the goofiest, most retarded thing I've ever written. (The shortest, too.) And lame as it might be, I cracked myself up writing it._

_I wrote it in my kitchen, while waiting for my tea to boil. Just before, I'd been dicing the daylights out of a couple of onions, to help my mom get ready for Thanksgiving. I was wearing my Matt cosplay goggles the whole time (ppfftt, some protection they were!), but when the chopping went awry, of course a related story popped into my head. Hence, the crack. How could I NOT after that? Heh._


End file.
